


Vacation

by honey_and_milk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Multiverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3154442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_and_milk/pseuds/honey_and_milk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a worrying psychological evaluation, Steve is ordered to take a vacation.  He's not prepared to run into a barista who looks just like Bucky Barnes as he makes his way across the United States.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

               The warm light through the thin motel curtains was what woke Steve, and he stretched under the covers.  He lay there a moment, listening to the sounds of the highway outside the window and revelling in the knowledge that he didn’t have to move any time soon.  It was… nice.  Curling his bare toes and pulling the blankets up around his neck, he reflected that he owed Dr. Watkins an apology.  The psychiatrist had had to pull medical rank over both him _and_ Director Fury to _order_ Steve on vacation, after a psychological evaluation that could only be considered dismal. 

               “One month,” he had said harshly, silencing the protests of both Steve and Nick, as they all sat in the Director’s office.  “ _One.  Month._   Captain Rogers has not had a vacation since _before World War Two._ ”  There hadn’t been a way to argue against that, though both Fury and Steve had pursed their lips, their discontent showing in their faces.  Steve hadn’t wanted a vacation, couldn’t imagine enjoying a month with nothing to do but get lost in his own thoughts, to be reminded of the absence of friends in this time. 

               But that had been a week and a half ago.  Since then, he’d let Clint and Natasha convince him to join them for pizza and movies at Clint’s (disaster of an) apartment, he’d visited Tony and Bruce in New York, and he’d settled on his vacation plans.  Here, in the morning sunlight, warm beneath the covers, halfway to South Dakota, with his shield and suitcase propped against the wall and his bike parked outside, when he’d spent the last few days leisurely making his way across the country, he had to admit that maybe Dr. Watkins had had the right idea after all. 

\---

               The second time Steve awoke that morning, he’d had a quick shower and checked out of the motel.  He made his way in from the outskirts of the city, stopping at an independent coffee shop in the sort of artistic neighbourhood Steve especially enjoyed.  As he travelled, he’d come to realize that his favourite part of the journey was simply stopping and enjoying the different feel of each city and town, of seeing life going on around him and trying to blend in, as though he was neither a tourist nor an American Icon.  Pulling his sketchbook from his bag, he strode into the café, hoping that they offered food that could pass for breakfast.  The hand written chalkboard menu above the till seemed promising at least, and Steve scanned the options with interest, already liking the comfortable vibe of the place, the subdued lull of the patrons’ conversations. 

               “I’ll be right with you,” a barista said, his back to Steve as he filled a dishwasher. 

               “No rush,” Steve replied, his eyes still on the menu. “I’m still deciding.”  The barista took a few more moments to fill the dishwasher, turning only after he’d pushed a button that set the machine running. 

               “Alright, what can I get you?” he asked, and Steve absently registered a familiar Brooklyn drawl.  Steve’s eyes still flitted over the menu, trying to make a final decision. 

               “I’ll have two cinnamon buns and… can you tell me what’s in a lavender—“ he glanced down from the menu and his breath caught in his chest.  “—fog,” he finished dumbly, staring into the face of his best friend.  _Bucky?_ He thought, but caught the name before it escaped his lips.  He swallowed roughly, feeling completely frozen, unable to stop staring.  The barista – _Bucky?_ —seemed just as frozen as he was, his mouth falling open like a fish’s.  It was ludicrous, this couldn’t be Bucky, Bucky was dead, seventy years dead, but _god, he could swear…_

               “Holy shit,” the barista laughed awkwardly, breaking the moment between them, and there was a familiar sort of shocked recognition on his face that Steve knew well.  The barista wasn’t Bucky, _of course._   Bucky was dead, Bucky didn’t have shoulder length hair pulled back in a short ponytail, or piercings over one eyebrow and the corner of his lip and all over both ears, Bucky didn’t work as a barista in some random American town in an artsy café.  No, this wasn’t Bucky.  _It wasn’t._   Just a lookalike, just someone whose shock was due to recognizing Captain America standing at his till.  Steve forced a breath into his lungs, forced an exhale, forced a smile that hurt for its falseness, because it could have been genuine. 

               “You look _just like_ my boyfriend,” the barista continued, breathing out another laugh, and the words took Steve by such surprise that he couldn’t hold back his own short, confused laugh and a “What?”

               “Well, not _just_ like him, he’s a lot smaller, but Jesus, facially?  Dead ringer.”  Steve blinked owlishly, his brain unable to do anything productive with the surreality of the situation.  The grin faltered a bit on the barista’s face, and he laughed again self-consciously.  _Talking about dead ringers…_

               “Ah, shit, sorry man, you just wanna make an order and I’m going on like an idiot about my bf.  A lavender fog is lavender earl grey tea, steamed milk and vanilla syrup.  I like it,” he offered his opinion with a one-shouldered shrug, and it was such a _Bucky_ move that Steve had to force himself to breathe again before he could speak. 

               “Sounds good,” he croaked out.

               “Great.  You want those cinnamon buns heated?” the barista asked, and Steve could only nod.  He waited at the counter as he watched the barista make his drink, warm the buns for him, unable to tear his eyes away from this man who looked so much like Bucky that it _hurt_.  The barista kept sneaking glances at Steve, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing either. 

               “Just like him though, I _swear,_ ” the barista muttered when he placed Steve’s order in front of him.  “You’re not related to any Rogers’s, are ya?” 

               “I’m a Rogers,” Steve said, feeling like he was being pulled along in an undertow.  “Steve.  Um.  Steve Rogers.”

               “No kidding?” the barista laughed with an incredulous grin.  “That a family name or something?  That’s my boyfriend’s name, too.  You guys have _gotta_ be related.  Here, lemme show ya,” the barista said, digging his cellphone out of his pocket.  The motion was awkward, and Steve realized for the first time that the barista’s left arm was prosthetic.  Once the phone was out, he skimmed through it for a moment, then handed it over.  “There, you see?” 

               And Steve did see.  On the small screen in his hand was a photo of _him and Bucky_.  Or him a he was before the serum, skinny and still more familiar to him than the figure that greeted him in the mirror every morning.  The him on the screen was laughing, blonde hair dishevelled as Bucky – the barista – pressed a kiss to his temple and held out his arm to take the photo. 

               It was too much.  Steve couldn’t move, couldn’t blink, couldn’t breathe.  He stared at the phone until the screen timed out and shook him back to reality.

               “Wow,” he managed, and forced himself to hand the phone back to the concerned barista.   

               “You alright?” he asked as he took his phone back. 

               “Yeah,” Steve said, trying to force his brain to function again.  “Yeah, I just… I didn’t think I’d have family out here.” 

               “Crazy,” the barista agreed, pocketing his phone.  “You know Steve, my Steve, he usually comes in here around four.  If you wanted to come back and meet him.  You know, maybe figure out how your families are related?”  The offer was given tentatively, but Steve seized on it.

               “Yeah.  Yeah, I’ll come back later today.”  It was all far, _far_ too much of a coincidence, Steve’s brain had decided, now that his neurons had started firing again, and he had to get to the bottom of it.  Possibilities swam through his head – clones?  Alien imposters?  Maybe the barista was onto something and they _were_ just relatives. 

               “Great,” said the barista, slicing through his thoughts.  “Meantime, you enjoy your breakfast.”

               “Yeah,” Steve said again, gathering his order.  “Hey, what’s _your_ name?” he asked.

               “James,” the barista said, and Steve felt his heart clench with anticipation.  “But most people call me Bucky,” he finished.  Steve nodded.

               “ _Bucky,”_ he repeated.  _Of course._   Whatever was going on, it was going to kill him until he could figure it out.  The name on his lips made him want to do nothing more than to grab the barista – to grab _Bucky_ – and wrap him in his arms and never let him go, never let him be anything but safe and whole and _alive_ ever again.

               “You even sound like him,” Bucky marvelled, shaking his head and smiling softly.  Steve retreated with his food to a far table, before he could say or do something that might appear, well, insane.  He watched Bucky as he ate, though, looking for any sign, any at all, that he was something other than the barista he appeared to be.  He could see none. 

               When he was done with the food he didn’t taste, he pulled out his phone, reluctant to leave the café just yet. 

 _I think I might have a situation_ he texted to Natasha.  He didn’t dare list specifics, because he was aware of how it would sound.  It would sound like he’d snapped, like the precious mental stability Dr. Watkins had been so concerned about had finally collapsed around him.  He was a little more pointed in the next text he sent, if only because he thought Tony wouldn’t bother to concern himself with Steve’s motives for asking.

 _Hey Tony.  What can you tell me about human cloning?  Is it possible?_  

               While he waited on replies, he watched Bucky, still seeing nothing unusual, except that it was _Bucky_ , alive and working in a coffee shop.  His phone buzzed with a reply from Nat.

_who is this?  :)_

_Steve_ , he replied, certain that Natasha had had his number. 

 _idk any Steve u got a wrong number, srry.  :)_  

Steve frowned at the message.

 _Is this Nat?_ he sent.

_nope its Cheryl :)_

_Okay, sorry._  

Natasha changed phone numbers often, but it wasn’t like her not to give him notice.  A frantic series of buzzes from his phone interrupted his thoughts.  Tony.

_Who is this?_

_How did you get this number?_

_Cloning is not my area of expertise, why would you ask me?_

_Then again I am a genius.  No it’s not possible yet.  Give it a decade._

_Seriously though who is this?_

Steve’s frowned deepened, along with his sense of unease. 

 _Steve,_ he sent back, then added _You know, Captain America._

His phone buzzed immediately, with several more messages from Tony.  His typing speed was nothing if not impressive.

_Nope_

_Don’t know anyone named Steve_

_And frankly anyone who calls themselves Captain America is probably insane_

_I’d give you the name of my therapist but I doubt you could afford her_

_Anyway you’ve achieved your one lifetime answer from Tony Stark_

_Congratulations_

_Now never text me again_

_I’m busy_

His phone was silent after that, but Steve’s heart was hammering.  Whatever was going on, it was bigger than he’d thought.  He stared at the phone in his hand – he had Fury’s direct line, to be used in emergencies only.  He wasn’t quite sure this qualified, but he needed to reach _someone_.  He spared a final glance at Bucky from across the room, then left the café and found a quiet spot in a nearby alley to make the call.  There was no ring, only an automated voice.

“ _We’re sorry, your call could not be connected.  The number you have dialed is not in service.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset wakes alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should toss a default warning on all my fics - I am a slow writer, and I'm also a grad student and a working human, so... you know. That said, I'm going to try to update this one more regularly, I have it very clearly mapped out.

The Asset woke alone.  The waking in itself was unusual enough, as he was not generally permitted to sleep, and coming out of cryostasis felt nothing like waking up.  To wake alone, utterly alone, was an impossibility. 

And yet. 

He sat up on the floor he had laid on, surveying his surroundings.  Dusty late-morning light filtered through gungy windows high up on the warehouse walls.  A visual survey only confirmed the reality of his solitude.  A bird fluttered somewhere in the rafters, then flew through a baseball sized hole in a glass pane.  The warehouse was large, but empty, and completely abandoned.  Here and there, chains hung from the ceiling.  Detritus ranging from tables with missing legs to unidentifiable pieces of rusted scrap metal was scattered across the floor, the remnants of a factory long since through with its manufacturing days.  The asset stood, and decades of dust rose around him in a cloud, setting him coughing without his mask.  As the dust settled, the asset noticed with confusion that there were no other disturbances in accumulated layers of filth – there were no human footprints, belonging either to him or anyone else.  The manner of his arrival in the warehouse was a mystery, as much as his lack of weapons, as much as his waking alone.  He checked his ear for a comm, though he knew there wasn’t one – but the Asset was never alone; if there wasn’t someone with him in person, there was a comm in his ear to issue orders and to report to. 

He scanned the room again, for cameras, for some hint of human presence, but his initial assessment remained.    He was utterly, completely alone.  He had not been alone since…

Since…

His mind blurred at the edges, memory of solitude that he knew existed denied to him.  He shook his head to clear it, it did not matter.  The facts were clear enough; he was alone, he was unarmed, and he was without a mission.  Protocol dictated that he return to his handlers.  Protocol dictated that he _find_ his handlers.  That was his mission.  The incongruity of the situation made no difference.  The Asset did not question, he only adapted. 

Armament was his first priority.  He moved efficiently to a promising pile of scrap metal, used his left arm to rend free three sharp pieces that could be used as knives if they had to be.  The sound of it was startlingly loud in the echoing space, and a flurry of feathers signaled the departure of more birds from the rafters.    He strapped the makeshift knives to his leathers, where he would usually keep more refined blades.  The warehouse contained only a single entrance for those of the non-winged persuasion, a large set of heavy metal doors on the far wall.  Haphazard brickwork filled the spaces along the other walls where smaller doors had once been.  The Asset’s echoing footsteps were the only sound in the cavernous space as he made his way to the rusted double doors.  He tested them, finding them to be locked from the outside, though still with some give – most likely a chain and padlock.  His metal fist made quick work of it, and the Asset plunged out of the warehouse into the bright sunlight reflecting off the concrete and sand-coloured bricks of a half-dozen other emptied warehouses. 

The air was dry and hot outside of the shadowed building, and the sun glinted off his arm in a manner that would certainly draw attention.  The Asset grimaced; he would need cover and less conspicuous clothing, neither of which he expected to find in this abandoned warren of dilapidated brick buildings with open spaces between them.  The quiet of the immediate area indicated that he may be alone outside for the moment as well; a derelict neighbourhood of a city’s lost glory days was of little appeal during daylight hours.  The path where he stood was wide enough for cars, but unpaved, and the gravel crunched under his feet conspicuously.  In the distance, he could hear the sound of a busy street, and he moved in the direction away from the noise, knowing he would stand out as he was.  His route took him past a half dozen more abandoned buildings before he reached a quiet paved road that indicated regular, if infrequent, use.  The odd parked car sat on the curb, but there were no humans on the street.  The road ran alongside a river, and there were no discerning features on the waterfront, save a boat launch, wet with recent use.  A gaudy pick-up truck, flames adorning the sides, sat nearby, the empty boat trailer behind it indicating that its owner was out on the river somewhere.  The truck was too conspicuous to take, but the Asset could see a grey hoodie resting on the passenger seat.  Scanning quickly for witnesses and finding none, he forced the door open, and pulled the hoodie out as the car alarm started blaring.  He checked the glove box, pleased to find a handgun in it, and a box of ammunition under the driver’s seat.  He took both, leaving at a reasonable, but unhurried pace, knowing that car alarms rarely attracted attention until they became irritating.

He loaded the gun, holstering it against his back, and storing the rest of the ammunition on his person, ditching the empty box in a narrow alleyway.  He zipped the hoodie over his tactical suit, tucking his hand into the front pocket.  The warm outer layer might be conspicuous in the summer heat, but not nearly so conspicuous as a metal arm. 

Armed and disguised, the Asset shifted his priorities to reconnaissance.  His last memories were of accompanying a tech team to an unfamiliar facility for recalibration.  The process for recalibration was as unfamiliar as the facility, on this occasion – there had been no chair, no IVs or medical monitoring equipment, only a wooden table, three unfamiliar technicians, and Commander Rumlow.  The Commander had instructed him to lie on the table, to hold out his right arm for one of the technicians.  A needle had pricked the skin, there had been a fuzziness in his head, and then…

There were no memories beyond that point.  Nothing in the mission parameters or undertaking provided clues to his current predicament.  Perhaps, the Asset considered, it was a test.  He had been tested before, he knew, even if he did not recall the details.  This hypothesis made sense.  Others, such as that he had been captured and abandoned, or that he had been decommissioned and left functional, did not.  In the event of failure or separation from his team on a tactical mission, the Asset was to report to a contact point that was assigned before the mission began – the Asset knew that he had never had cause use the contact before, but one was assigned for every tactical mission regardless.  Such contact points were not assigned for missions of routine maintenance, and given that his current location was unknown and unfamiliar, he had no knowledge of any such points in the vicinity. His mission must therefore be to contact Hydra.  It was likely he was being timed.  The Asset set off in the direction of the city centre. 

\---

The Asset had intended to provision himself with some item that would provide him information about his current location; a smartphone, a map – something that could be easily taken and not noticed missing right away.  He had seamlessly fallen into the bustle of the city unnoticed.  Smaller than most cities he had operated in before, but not nearly so small that he was recognized as a stranger.  He’d altered his usual purposeful stride to the sort of shuffle that discouraged contact but didn’t raise suspicion.  He kept his head down, but his eyes watchful, looking for hints of a Hydra presence, for threats, for any place where he could obtain the reconnaissance tools he required.  He’d hardly begun his task when his eyes lighted on a skinny blond figure across the street from him, walking opposite to him, head bowed and pawing through a messenger bag as he moved.  The figure was familiar somehow, and the Asset faltered in his steps, eyes trailing after the man in a way that lacked his usual stealth, and he corrected the behaviour when it registered.  Still, he altered his path as soon as he was able, so that he might trail the figure.  Few people were ever familiar to the Asset – only handlers and targets.  It stood to reason that the skinny man, oblivious ahead of him, must be one or the other. 

The Asset considered the man as he followed from a distance, unobserved.  The man didn’t move like a handler.  He lacked the bearing and brutal confidence that aligned in the Asset’s mind with the role.  He was gangly and short, moved as though he was overcompensating for both, ever running his hand through his hair to push aside too-long bangs.  The Asset could tell he’d had no military training whatsoever.  He looked more like a – _punk kid_ – technician than anything.  But looking at him, the Asset felt an undercurrent of protectiveness that was never associated with technicians.  The idea that he could be a target had been long since discarded.  Targets did not inspire protective programming.  The idea of a bullet piercing a target’s skull and splattering their brains against brick walls did not make the Asset unsettled and unsteady.  So he must be a handler. 

Still, he didn’t move like a handler. 

The Asset followed.  It would be unacceptable to approach a handler in public the Asset knew instinctively, even in a situation as unusual as this one.  He would be alone eventually, and the Asset was patient.  He gave the man a wide berth, watching as he completed a series of mundane tasks – stopping in an art supply store, sketching children and their parents as they played in a busy park, visiting a bookstore and purchasing nothing, leaving with a bag of takeout containers from a Thai restaurant, making his way from there to a café.  The Asset had never ordered take out, but it seemed strange that the man would take the food to a café rather than to a home or an office, especially considering the “no outside food or drink” sign he could read on the café door from his vantage point across the street.  Perhaps the man had been aware of his presence the entire time, and this was a signal that he should follow him inside – he had been checking his cellphone regularly throughout the day, and it was likely that Hydra had implanted a tracker in his arm.  Perhaps the handler had been following his progress remotely, aware of his proximity.  Perhaps not.  Entering the café could draw attention to himself, but if he was being given a subtle order, he would do best not to ignore it.  Decision made, the Asset crossed the street, striding towards the café.  His hand paused on the glass door, though, his eyes stuck on the scene he could see through it.  The handler had a strange, slack expression on his face, his hand firmly in the grip of… of himself, though larger – _Christ Stevie, you’re so much taller, your eyes ain’t where they used to be–_ and beside them, grinning as he opened a take-out container, was _him_.  The Asset. 

He stared for a moment, caught entirely off-guard for the third time that day, and that didn’t happen, but perhaps he was malfunctioning, perhaps they were decommissioning him after all – perhaps they were _replacing_ him – and then he recoiled from the door as though he’d been burned.  As swiftly as he could, without drawing attention, he made his way to a rooftop vantage from which he could see all the exits to the café. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on my [tumblr](http://libations-of-honey-and-milk.tumblr.com) or my [nsfw tumblr](http://genies-and-gin.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3 - Interlude

The mirror ripples as he walks past it, and it catches his attention. 

A flicker of a thing, and then it’s gone. 

A glance in the other direction, a minute longer lingering at the breakfast table and he would have missed it.

He is grateful for the coincidence as he rushes to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me on my [tumblr](http://libations-of-honey-and-milk.tumblr.com/) or my [nsfw tumblr](http://genies-and-gin.tumblr.com/)


End file.
